Fallen Star
by JavertInMiniature
Summary: What would happen if someone saved Javert from drowning? Would he fight it or let it happen? How would he feel about the person who saved him? Not all stars fall in flame.
1. A Chance Encounter

**Sorry if this gets a little too fluffy. This is my first story and it's very close to my heart. Review please!**

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"There is no way to go on..."

"Yes there is, Javert." He turns from his ledge to face her. "Step down, Monsieur. We wouldn't want any accidents to happen, would we?"

Javert's grief turns to momentary defiance. "It's no accident, Mademoiselle." He falls from the fatal ledge and is soon welcomed by the depths of the Seine.

"JAVERT!" The girl jumps in after him. It would have been a long way to fall if the rain had not fallen so furiously over the past few days. The smell of iron exploded as the face of the Seine broke once again. It seems the blood of the martyrs missed the meadows of grass and went straight to the river. "Javert!" She splashes furiously to stay above the surface. Suddenly it begins to dawn on her - the current would take her to him. Brass buttons shone in the moonlight, glowing brighter than the stars she knew he adored. She hooks her arms around his shoulders and paddles her way to shore. Each of his breaths is met with her silent prayer, _"Thank you... thank you..."_

Coughing and sputtering, Javert awakes on the bank on the Seine. _"How did I survive? And why? This must have been an accident."_ Instinctively, he reaches for his revolver. A curse spits out of him as he remembers dropping it in the sewer. One last chance. The faintest shadow of a doubt flashes across his mind as he slides his hand into the empty air where his sabre's hilt should have been. Panic sets into his mind. That sabre was everything to him. The only place it ever was, when not on his belt, was in his hand. If he had lost it to the river... Javert groped for the sword in the darkness like a blind infant.

"Why don't you look up, Monsieur? You've never had trouble doing that before." It was the girl from the bridge! And in her hands rested... his sabre. Instinct and rage acted as one. His sword barely hit the ground before he was driving her to the ground, spitting out curses and throwing punches like he never had before. His hands closed around her throat. She was strong and stealthy, and Javert could admire that. But he was stronger by far and could easily kill her. One last act to clear his mind, to stop her from growing up and becoming him. One last act before he could also die on this wretched beach. Suddenly, her hand shot up into his throat and a sharp slap to the ear sent him sprawling to his back.

"...how...?" Was all he could manage.

She was recoiled like a wild animal, hugging her knees and barely peeking out over the tops of them. "My mother taught me. Even whores need to protect themselves." Javert half-fondly remembered Fantine under the pier at Montreuil. Curiosity overtook him. "Where is your mother from?"

"Italy, originally. Fell in love with a sailor who took her with him as far as Montreuil. Broke her heart so badly she became a whore just to survive. My father, so she says, was somewhat of a frequent named Bamatabois..."

Javert could hardly contain his laughter. The sound frightened even him, for he realized that he could not even remember the last time he had done so. The freedom it gave him! "Bamatabois was a rat." He found himself saying it without even considering it. The girl was young - albeit strong - so he could not so easily condemn her father. "I am sorry, Mademoiselle. I... your father... I arrested a whore once for attacking him. I didn't even have proof, really." His throat began to catch. No. Not here. Not now. But... why not here? Why not now? "My mother was a whore as well. She was arrested for brawling with her master, and gave birth to me while in prison." Javert's eyes filled with tears at the memory. All his life, he had been persecuting people just like him, and they had all repaid him with nothing but kindness. This girl - he would have killed her for the same reason. He would have ended her life far too soon. How soon, even? "How old are you?"

She laughed dryly. "You ask my age before my name? You are a curious man indeed, Monsieur." Javert laughed out of slight embarrassment. "I am 15, and my name is Stella."

Tired from the events of the day, Javert could only cast a questioning glance to her before collapsing to the ground again. She read his glance easily, and the last thing he heard before succumbing to sleep was Stella's voice, finally peaceful. "It means star."


	2. Solitude

**Sorry if this is too short. It's also extremely fluffy. I promise it won't always be this way, though.**

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_The barricade stood in front of the tavern where Javert had been kept prisoner. The sound of gunshots awoke him. The boy who had clubbed him earlier was strong – he could feel a patch of dried blood covering his forehead. Another one of the young students climbed the barricade… no… no… STOP! A soldier pointed his rifle and pulled the trigger. Javert closed his eyes; he did not want to see the boy fall. To his surprise, he heard the gunshot… and then the boy's voice. He recognized that voice – that was Marius Pontmercy._

When Javert's eyes opened once again, his arms were wrapped around his scabbard. His right hand curled around the hilt of his sabre. It was familiar and lovable, but he found himself hating it. He was no longer Javert – Javert had drowned in the Seine. On second thought, no. Stella killed Javert, and all that was left of him was that sabre and that uniform. Cautiously, so as not to wake Stella, he set down the sabre and began unbuttoning his jacket. Hatred for the uniform poured out of every undone button. What had once defined him was now destroying him. Let the other officers make of it what they will – Javert was dead, and here was the proof. With all the rage of twenty-nine years wasted in slavery, Javert flung the uniform jacket into the Seine.

He turned back to Stella, still fast asleep in the grass. Kneeling at her side, he laid one hand on her shoulder and used the other to brush her hair out of her face. He knew he shouldn't leave her at such a time, but he had to. "_If I were to not return…"_ There was a large bruise on her cheek. Javert cringed to remember that he was the cause of it. "Thank you," he barely whispered, then gently kissed the bruise before departing.

Stella awoke on the banks of the Seine. Alone. Frustrated. For nine years she had adored Javert, thinking of him as the father Bamatabois never could be. She loved him, and when he stood outside the church and talked about the stars, she felt like he could love her as well. She had always known it was just a dream, but the crushing solitude was proof that it would never actually come true. Stella had no time to feel sorry for herself. She rubbed her eyes, and her hand slid down onto her cheek. Pain exploded from the spot she had touched, forcing Stella to tightly shut her eyes. "_At least now I've got something to remember him by._" Stella opened her eyes to see a large shadow looming over her. She braced herself for whatever may come next when a nightstick fell just barely into her line of sight. A familiar voice boomed from above, "That was mine once. It seems to fit you better."

Never before had Stella been able to express her feelings for Javert. They were just a dream that was only for her. Javert had never been able to express his feelings for anyone. After a certain point in his life, he began to believe that love of any kind was a fairy tale for people who were too weak to live by the law. In that moment, on that beach, everything dissolved. The lines between perceived strength and perceived weakness. The walls that keep dreams inside people's heads and stop them from becoming reality. Nothing in that moment mattered anymore. With Stella in his arms, and he in hers, all Javert found was the love only a father could feel for his child.


	3. Changes and Voices

**So this is where the story actually gets interesting. No more of this straight fluff. Also, this one is longer. You're welcome :)**

**Anyways... please review! I really would appreciate some feedback. Or if you're shy, message me. I don't bite. Hard.**

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"So where were you today?"

"There were some things I had to do, Stella. I can't be Javert anymore, so I had to completely destroy anything left of him."

"What did you have to do?"

"Sold my sword, burned my uniform, and changed my name."

"What am I supposed to call you now?" Stella's voice was playful, completely ignorant of his pain. He could not blame her, as he was doing his best to hide it from her. He tried to say the name, but the memory of it caused it to stick in his throat. It was far more than just a name, it was one of the bravest people he had ever known.

"Gavroche." That was only half the story. "Gavroche Madeline."

In that single moment, Stella understood his pain. With the most sympathetic smile and voice she could manage, she said quietly, "I loved Gavroche."

"He nearly killed me to save his friends. It's a pity his plan didn't work." Stella softly laid her hand on his shoulder to quiet him. Javert silently cursed the fact that he could not show or tell her how much he appreciated her love. Stella silently cursed the fact that she had brought it up.

"Madeline… wasn't that the name of our mayor back in Montreuil?" Javert could barely nod. "Why did he leave? He was a great man."

"He and I…" No. There was no way he could reveal it to Stella now. She was the only person whom he had ever loved who loved him as well. He couldn't risk losing that so soon. But could he lie? Javert thought back to the first person whom he had ever called "Father" (never aloud, of course), his instructor in the police academy. "_Never hide anything from your unit. They are your brothers, and anything you hide_ _from_ _them is a betrayal of them, of you, of me, and of your uniform. You're a family, aren't you?_ _Act like it, for goodness' sake._" Father was a devout Catholic who believed that abstaining from use of the Lord's name would get him out of time in purgatory. All the other boys had mocked him for it, but Javert only looked up to him all the more for it. As much as he hated any reminder of his old self, Javert realized that Father's advice could be applied here as well. Stella was his only family now. He could never dream of betraying her. "Monsieur Madeline was just a name invented by a criminal named Jean Valjean. I had suspected it, but tried not to think about it. Anything else would be disrespectful. When he finally told me who he was, I tried to arrest him, but he fought me and won." Javert's eyes clouded with regret.

Stella could sense it. "Why do you regret it?"

"He could have killed me more easily than I could snap a twig. He'd been in a labor camp for seven years before I even met him, and I watched him there for twelve years after that. I couldn't see that side of him at the moment. I only saw what I wanted to see – a fugitive. He ran away after we fought, and I followed him all the way to Paris. That was nine years ago."

"You followed him, and I followed you." Stella wished to take it back as soon as she had said it – this was the first time she had ever dared speak of it to anyone. Her eyes widened in fear. There it was, her biggest secret, and she had spit it out without a second thought.

Her shocked expression was reflected in Javert's large eyes. It was a short statement, sure, but it had gone deep into his soul. Stella's simple confession had penetrated the depths of his heart he never knew existed. "_She loved me before I even knew her._ _How? Why? God, why would you give her to me?_ _You know full well I_ _could never deserve her._" An unexpectedly stern voice appeared without warning in the recesses of Javert's mind. "_Javert, my son, if I had given you just what you_ _deserved, there would be a body inside your jacket right now. Do you really think I would let you throw your life away, when there was still so much you could learn?_ _I've_ _always wanted you to succeed._ _She is your second chance, my son. Do not question why I have given her to you. Simply learn from her all you can._"

Stella had turned away from him and was covering her face with her right hand, supporting herself with her left. Hesitantly, Javert outstretched his own right hand. Doubts flooded into his mind. He thought back to the voice. It seemed trustworthy. How could he learn from Stella if he did not somehow let her know that he wanted her to express her feelings? He closed his eyes, and then enveloped her tiny hand in his. "_Will I ever be able to say how I really feel?_"

"_Patience, my son,_" the voice replied. "_I will decide when the time is right for you._" When Javert's eyes opened, he was still holding Stella's hand. She had let her guard down and was smiling.

"I can't. I can't. I can't I can't I CAN'T." Javert stood up and walked briskly over to the riverbank, crouching with his eyes shut like a beast about to spring from its cage upon a Roman gladiator. "Stella is just another person. Why should I care about her? Is it because she cares about me?" "_Sure. Like that would ever happen._ _Nobody_ _cares about you, Javert. It's just in your head. Telling yourself that there are people who love you is a dangerous route. Love causes you to do things you would never do, neglect things you would never neglect, forgive people who shouldn't be forgiven…_"

"I DON'T LOVE HIM! I never did, and I never will love anyone. Especially not him." Javert realized that he was on his feet even though he had no memory of standing up. Fear began to rise, but he could not allow it to grow. Fear could be easily crushed by hatred. "24601! I will find you if it takes me every last breath I have left!"

Stella looked up at the man, her broken heart repeating his words in a constant loop. "_I never will love anyone._"


	4. Stone, and Still it Trembles

**Well, you asked for it. Or not. Maybe. I don't know. This isn't necessarily angst yet, but it's definitely not fluff. Flangst maybe? Apparently that's a thing out here on the Internet (I'm a bit of a noob).**

**Anyways, this chapter became very hard to write and is itself the reason for the T rating. I originally wrote the character of Stella to be like me, but I realized I am more like Javert (in case you couldn't tell from my screen name). The Weakness, as here described by Javert, is in fact an extremely rare mental illness known as conversion disorder. I have this illness, and it is not only annoying and destructive, but also terrifying. Thinking about Javert's attack caused me to have several myself. So a word of warning: you probably shouldn't read this chapter, or at least the first three paragraphs if you have a panic disorder. Also I don't really know what Stella's actual reaction would be, as I had to piece together her reaction from my feelings during my first attack as well as what few reactions I have gathered from my classmates over the years. Congratulations, now you know more about me than you ever wanted to. Anyways, enjoy this chapter and please review or message me! I really do enjoy feedback.**

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It always felt like dying. The Weakness. Every kind of weakness was like death to Javert, but this one never went away. Some days it would come without warning. The Weakness was almost always spawned of hatred, causing it to grow with every second of its cursed existence. "_Of MY cursed existence._" The uncontrollable trembling in his hands was the sign that he had gone too far. "Stella, look away and don't look again until I tell you to." He could not turn around to test her obedience; the tattered shreds of his remaining pride remained purely on faith at the moment. "_My son, let go of your pride._" Javert's knees began to buckle as the weight of the entire world dropped into him. "Stella." His voice was bare. One last effort, though it would take all his energy… "Stella!" His eyelids drifted closed from their own weight as the voice sunk in once again. "_Thank you for trusting me, my son. Now you can begin to heal._"

Stella rushed to Javert's side, clasping his hand and supporting his head. His eyes were half-shut, with hardly any expression coming from them. His chest barely heaved, as though it could not support its own weight. It looked like he was dying. Stella was lost in the twin floods of what she wanted to do and what she thought he must want her to do. His last cry had asked her for help, so she was helping him to the best of her ability. He would never want her to weep for him, though. Especially not today. She had shown him enough emotion already. When his eyes closed, she could no longer contain herself. Allowing a single tear to escape her eye, she dropped her head into his chest, which had long since stopped heaving. She breathed in sharply, to prepare herself for the word that was about to escape her lips, but it would not come out. So much as thinking the word would cause a flood of feeling she was not ready for yet. Stella simply resolved to hold his hand until its warmth left, clutching it tighter and tighter as the impending goodbye crept closer and closer.

The Weakness had been with Javert since 1815. He had been lying awake one night, replaying the words he had heard earlier in the day in a constant loop: "_Jean Valjean has escaped._" A familiar voice added its piece: "_And you could have stopped him if you were doing your job._" Javert had sat straight up and said out loud, "My job was not to watch him! He was on parole. The fact that he escaped is none of my concern!" His hands were shaking within his skin, and he found he could not control their movements at all. The voice returned so forcefully he could swear it was more than imagination. "_Have you forgotten who you are? Worse yet, are you remembering what you were? You say Jean Valjean is none of your concern. Is absolutely upholding the law no longer your concern? I could possibly believe that you are better than him, Javert._" The voice faded to an encouraging whisper. "_But why don't you prove it to me?_" His entire body was uncontrollably shaking, but then suddenly stopped. His instinct told him to stand up and look at the stars, but his legs would not move. "_Am I dying?_" He had wondered. The thought tortured him all through the night, imprisoning him with the weight of his own body.

Javert realized that Stella did not know what was happening to him. Her eyes were shut tightly to hide the emotion behind them. This amused Javert, for it reminded him greatly of himself. His chest puffed out in a futile attempt to laugh, which alerted Stella. Her head shot up from his chest and her eyes opened, allowing several large tears to drop onto his jacket. This gesture alone was enough to pull him out of the Weakness. A tiny smile played at the corners of his mouth. "Stella, Mademoiselle," he regained the ability to move his mouth, "is it your intention to break my hand?"

Stella's reaction was more instinct than anything else. Before she could finish processing what had just happened, she had kissed him on the cheek and wrapped her arms around his neck. After a few seconds, Javert was able to lift his arms and embrace her as well. "_You know she'll never love you if you shed your old self, Javert. Really, you're better off without her. Has she done anything so far that hasn't caused you to lose a part of who you are?_" For the first time in his memory, Javert ignored the voice. He finally had a reason not to care. He had Stella.

Well, perhaps he hadn't really ignored the voice, per se. Its plea did not depress him as it usually did, but it did raise honest questions. Letting go of Stella, he stared at her, wanting her to reassure him that the demon voice was wrong. Instead he only saw how pale she was despite the unrelenting heat of the June sun. She was probably starving, but of course too stoic to tell him. Silently, he stood up and began walking away from the river. She followed close behind him. As if he had expected her to behave differently.

Javert never ceased to amaze Stella. Everything about him was hidden and cryptic. He was in many ways like a labyrinth – finding your way past one wall only shows you another one, and most people are too impatient to find the center so they get up and leave. Of course, this only made Stella love him even more. It takes strength to hide yourself from the world. However, it takes even more strength to reveal yourself to anyone after you've been hiding yourself from the world. Stella knew that just from her experiences with Javert. Although she doubted how much of himself he had really shown her, Stella decided to trust him and follow. She loved him.

Javert had always disliked broad daylight. The light of the sun was a special privilege for those who were inside the law. Javert was more above the law. Not that he didn't subject himself to it – heaven forbid he set aside even the least of the law's demands! The law was like a mighty thoroughbred, and Javert was its jockey, driving it to his whim and trampling those who disobeyed it.

Ducking quickly into a shadowed alleyway, Javert looked back at Stella. It was as if she had been following him her all her life. "_Perhaps she has,_" thought the man. The demon voice echoed in the recesses of his mind. He contemplated asking her the question the demon had begged, but he realized that now was not the time. Suddenly, Javert realized he was exactly where he needed to be. He entered the apartment building, called Stella in behind him, and went into his old apartment.

The apartment was simple and almost completely bare. The living room doubled as a dining room, where a small table was accompanied by two mismatched chairs. The dining room also broke off into a kitchen. There were only two other rooms in the apartment, undoubtedly small and unadorned like the center. The apartment's simplicity alone told Stella that it must belong to Javert.

"Here. Sit down." His voice was gruff and awkward, and Stella found it amusing how hard he was trying to be a gentleman. He disappeared into the kitchen, from which he brought a large baguette. Stella's eyes widened. She did not often have a large part of one, but especially not just given to her. Not since her mother died had she had someone to look out for her, at least not so devotedly. Back at the Café Musain, some of the regulars had accepted her as a friend. Marius had even taught her how to read. "_Oh Marius,_" she thought sadly, "_If only you could have lived._" Realizing that her expression was probably giving away her thoughts, she changed her visage and looked up at Javert. Too late. He had sensed it, and was now himself trying to hide his concern. Stella could not help but realize that they could hardly be more like family if they were connected by blood.

Throughout his life, very few people had looked directly into Javert's eyes and smiled at him. Stella's smile was enigmatic, and it unnerved him greatly. "Take it. It's yours," he finally had to say just to ease the growing tension. Stella finally looked away, but her smirk never faded. So strong was her will, he did the same as he took the other chair.


	5. Time to Close Another Door

**Alright, my lovelies! Time for a shorter, fluffier, less mental-illness themed one. It's neither as short or as fluffy as chapter two, but who cares? It was time for some fluff. These middle chapters are mostly just filler material for those of you who enjoy the character of Javert as much as I do, or who just like Stella's sass. This chapter will include a flashback that includes elements of the play, 2012 movie, and book. Oops. My apologies to those of you who have actually read the book. Anyway, the thing about these filler chapters is, I barely think while I'm writing them. Most of what comes up probably surprises me more than it surprises you. In any case, please enjoy chapter 5!**

**P.S. Slight mention of religion. I really couldn't help it. It will come into play again in later chapters, so if it offends you, you may not want to continue reading. Thank you for your consideration.**

**P.P.S. Mild language. Oops.**

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"We can't stay long. I hope you know that."

"I do now."

What was it about that damned smile of hers that always made him smile back? She was sarcastic and annoying, but in a good kind of way. She always made him feel safe and definitely loved. She really was the closest thing to family he had ever had. He had to tell her what was going to happen, though. "I don't know when, Stella," he began, "but my fellow officers are going to find my jacket soon. They're going to assume that I am dead, so we have to leave this place before that happens."

Stella understood him almost perfectly. There was a flaw in his logic that bothered her. "I thought you said you burned your uniform."

Stella certainly was an attentive child. "I couldn't wait to ditch the jacket. I unintentionally faked my own death by throwing it into the river Seine while you were asleep." She never dropped that smirk.

"Smooth. Explain to me how exactly you didn't plan that?"

"It was my intention to leave it behind, not necessarily to fake my own death. However, this means that we must leave this place and find a new apartment."

"Is there anything specifically you need to pack to get out of here?"

Javert thought for the briefest of seconds. "No." It was true. He was by no means a sentimental being. Besides, there was hardly anything in the apartment, as he had neither time nor need of pleasantries in his former life. All that would soon change.

Stella brushed the crumbs of the demolished baguette off the table and into her hand. Javert did not seem as though he would care about a few crumbs on the table, but she still wanted to be nice. Walking over to the fireplace, she knelt by the hearth and brushed the crumbs into the pile of ashes. The ashes were relatively fresh, and a tiny scrap of blue fabric that was only discolored by the flames proved Javert's story. Something had fallen through the grate and was relatively untouched. It appeared metallic and ornate. Being so out of place in the simple apartment, naturally it caught Stella's eye. "Monsieur?" She scooped up the strange object in her hands. "Monsieur, what is this?"

Javert had been packing a small bag when Stella called him. He couldn't imagine her finding something she couldn't recognize. Slipping into the room, he crouched next to Stella. As she stretched out her hands, he recoiled in surprise. It was an artifact he did not even remember owning, and its reappearance filled him with horror and with awe. Ebony beads connected by a silver chain dripped through Stella's fingers. Javert knew what was connected to the end of the chain. She was holding his old rosary.

It was twelve years ago, but nothing escapes the mind of an inspector. Early in 1820, he had been promoted from a humble prison guard in Toulon to the chief of police of Montreuil-sur-Mer. He was young and unafraid, although the Weakness still haunted him at times. Montreuil was a flourishing city thanks to its mayor, Monsieur Madeline. Javert had heard stories about him and developed a great respect. Hoping to gain mutual admiration, the young officer visited the mayor's textile factory. "Please know me as Javert; I am here at your command," he had said, brimming with pride. Monsieur Madeline seemed glad yet also reluctant to meet him. He had drawn back and turned away at every chance he had. Javert noticed large scars on his hands, wrists and neck when he finally turned towards him. "Your face is not a face I would forget," the mayor had said in response to Javert's suspicion of knowing him. This embarrassed Javert slightly at the time, for it forced him to realize how distinct his appearance was. He had been told as a young boy that he looked like a bulldog, and was often made fun of for it. The mayor, noticing Javert's saddened expression, extended his hand and held out that exact rosary that Stella was holding now. Jean Valjean's rosary.

Stella had seen Javert do many things before, but never reminisce. His expression was indescribable, of pain and of anger and of regret most of all. "Monsieur?" The horror of his expression faded. "Monsieur, are you all right?"

Trembling, Javert extended his hands toward the rosary just as he had when it was first given to him. Twelve years. He was not young, as he thought he remembered being. In fact, he was just a few months from forty. His promotion had made him feel young until he realized whom he was serving. "Yes. Yes, Stella, I'm fine." She seemed not so easily persuaded. "Monsieur Madeline gave me that a long time ago, and I had forgotten that I owned it." Her silence gave him time to look at the cross at the end of the chain. There was a man on the cross. His expression was not pained, as anyone would expect, but a little bit relieved. Javert would never be able to comprehend it, but he would sooner understand it than admit to not understanding it.

Stella saw his tension, silently cursing for being the cause of it. "Weren't we leaving?" Javert was instantly snapped out of his trance. He could not speak at the moment, but he did nod furiously. She stood up quickly and pulled him to his feet, suppressing her wonder at the fact that he kept the rosary with him. He left for a brief moment and returned with the small bag that he had packed earlier. As they left the apartment, Javert felt an unexpected pang. This was truly the last act of killing Javert and starting a new life.


	6. We Will Honor his Name

**A big hello to a group of persistent readers who actually care about what happens to Inspector Javert! I would give you an Oklahoma hello, but that would be creepy. Really, really creepy. Like seriously there's only two people on this website I actually know in person. But hey, isn't that what the Internet is for? So if you're still around, you've gotten past the super angsty part and you're into the flashback part. The plot twists in these chapters even surprised me. Next chapter, if I get enough reviews, I'll tell you what I believe Javert's first name is. So please review this story! It's nice to have a review on chapter one and all, but I'd like some feedback on recent material. Okay? Okay. I swear guys, I'm actually not this pushy in real life. Without (much) further ado, I present Fallen Star chapter 6!**

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Several weeks had passed since Javert had brought Stella to live with him in his new apartment. He had already been presumed dead, and his funeral was to be that day. After dressing himself, he knocked on Stella's door and waited for a response. "Come in, Monsieur." Still so formal around him! If she ever showed emotion toward him, she immediately withdrew as if it had been an accident. He entered to see Stella sitting in a chair by the windowsill, looking out at the sky. "Stella, my child, what are you doing?"

She turned to face him. Her golden hair, not altogether unlike her personality, refused to be tamed at all costs. The wildest strands absorbed the sunlight from the window, creating a halo for the most devilish angel Javert would ever know. The supposed innocence of her expression caused him to laugh for a second. "What is so funny, Monsieur? I was only watching the clouds."

Javert sneered in mock disgust, hiding his curiosity. There was very little on earth he hated more than clouds. "Clouds? You must be mistaken. Clouds are for cursing, not for admiring."

Stella mirrored his expression. "Clouds are beautiful! They're always moving, never the same, and they can look like anything you want them to be. They're restful. They do nothing except-"

"-Block the stars." Javert had to cut her off. "Stars are the real beauty of the sky. They move, but always return to the same place at the same time of night at the same time of the year. Their shapes are determined by our ancestors, so we can appreciate them better instead of guessing what they look like."

"Clouds are just water."

"Stars are just fire! Besides, I almost drowned once, did you ever think of that? I don't like water. Especially not clouds, considering that they always block the stars when I need to see them."

"I… I'm… I'm terribly sorry Monsieur, I…" Stella's visage was afraid like Javert had never seen before. And was she stuttering? Why? Since when?

"Stella, it's fine. I'm sorry if I sounded angry with you. I was just surprised, that's all." He gently placed his hand on Stella's shoulder. "You never have to be afraid around me." Wait, why was he here in the first place? The funeral. Right. "Stella, my funeral is today. Would you like to go?"

Her eyes regained their mischievous glint. "Sure. It could be interesting."

He left her room, prepared breakfast for the both of them, and then they left to go in search of the funeral. It was oddly tense. "It's strange to think of myself as dead now." Javert tried to adopt the girl's sarcastic smirk. "Never realized I was dying."

Stella was completely serious. "We're all dying from the second we're born. There's nothing we can do to stop or delay it. Some people advance the process…" Her voice died off, as if she could not bear to finish the thought.

Javert stopped. Perhaps this would be too painful for her. Imagine that – someone pained by the thought of his death! Well, speak of the devil. A lonely man walked down the street just past him, causing him to freeze. Jean Valjean. A coat draped about his shoulders despite the July sun. "_He must be sick. He's not dying, is he? No, that couldn't happen. If I couldn't kill him, nothing can._" He returned to his original thought. "Stella, are you quite sure you would like to go? It is fine with me if you do not." For the second time that day, Stella stammered out a response, telling him she would rather stay home. "We do not have to go to the funeral then." Javert was an inspector. He could understand and predict everything, save Stella's reaction to this statement. A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, and then she looked down at the cobblestones beneath them. As soon as he turned away, she stood on her toes and wrapped her arms around his neck. She was surprisingly strong for an adolescent. He remembered her strength the night they had met, how she must have dragged him out of the water against the current of the Seine… perhaps she was stronger than he would acknowledge. He turned back to her, wrapping his arms around her as well. "Stella, my child," the words escaped his mouth before he had stopped to think about it.

His eyes shot open to see a lone person in the crowd stopping to watch him. "_Please tell me it's not… oh, it better not be,_" Valjean tipped his hat to him just as he would a stranger. There was a look of recognition in his eyes, but not the kind of recognition that the man had feared. It was as if Valjean was looking at a younger version of himself along with a younger version of his own daughter, Cosette. "_No, no, NO! Please don't, please don't come over here! Oh God, please don't let him recognize me!_" A sarcastic thought ended Javert's silent prayer abruptly: "_he probably thought the same thing each time he saw you up until now._"

"She's quite a lovely child. Reminds me of my own daughter." Javert was relieved to see that Valjean showed no sign of recognition. "Treasure these moments, monsieur. A day may come when you are suddenly no longer the only man in her life." Valjean winked at Stella. She as well was happy to know that her former mayor did not recognize her.

Javert found a type of courage in that moment that he had never known he possessed. "What of your daughter, monsieur?" Stella used all of her strength to hide her shock. Javert was openly talking to Jean Valjean.

Valjean laughed, still suspecting nothing. "Seventeen years old, and engaged. My, how the time flies! It seems to me some days that just yesterday I met her mother. Poor woman, she was too good for me. God took her home some nine years ago."

Javert bowed. "My condolences, monsieur. Why have you not brought your daughter with you?"

"This funeral is a very sad affair for me. He never would have known it, but I always believed Inspector Javert to be the finest man I have ever known. In many ways, he was like a brother to me. Poor man never realized how alike we were; he only focused on our differences. I hope he died peacefully."

Javert lowered his voice. Stella noticed that he probably could not hold out this conversation much longer. "I hear that he was a man of few friends. Perhaps he would have liked to know how you felt about him."

Valjean shrugged. "Perhaps. Now, I suppose I shall find out when God calls me home as well. I shan't bore you any longer. Adieu, monsieur. Take care."

Javert smiled and bowed to his former foe, then turned away to begin the journey home with Stella. Realizing that he did not ever look or act like a proper father, he awkwardly held out his arm to Stella. She took it with her customary smirk. Although he smiled at first, he could not fool her. He was crying.


	7. Memories I Cannot Share

**So what happened was... Umm... I burned my hands really badly last Saturday night, so I've been a little behind on typing this out. However, I'm still waiting for more reviews. So here's the deal: only I (and a couple of my classmates) know how this chapter ends. I will tell you nothing except that it is a MAJOR plot twist and will make the previous chapters more emotional (which doesn't make sense because the end of this chapter is the love child of that time writer's block, caffeine, and conspiracy theories had a three-way). If I get more reviews on this chapter, I will post the ending of it. Have fun with this one.**

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1832 was the year of rain. Stella was shy and did not like to interact with other children, so she hardly minded the rain. One day in July, the rain poured down in sheets. Javert did not think much of it, as the storm still seemed far away.

In the middle of the night, the rain became so thick that it sounded like bullets pounding on Javert's roof. The noise awoke him and did not allow him to go back to sleep. He decided to go to the kitchen to brew a pot of tea. When he turned around to find a match, he heard something unmistakable: a sniffle. It was quiet, sure, but undoubtedly Stella. A sniffle meant that she was either sad or sick, and he could allow neither of these to be true. "Stella?" He ventured out of the kitchen. "Stella, my child, what's wrong?"

She turned to face him. Her eyes were red and glistening. He put his arm around her shoulders. "Did I ever tell you what I did after coming to Paris?" she asked in a broken voice. Javert shook his head, wondering where this conversation may lead. She went on. "I was nothing but a street urchin for a long time, until I realized I was old enough to work." Javert held his breath, hoping with all he was worth that she would not say she followed in her mother's footsteps. "There was a young boy, an urchin like me. He called himself Gavroche, and he claimed to have two sisters about my age. He followed the older one to a meeting one day in the Café Musain, whose owners were looking for a new waitress. It seemed perfect, so I began working there as often as I could." Javert breathed a heavy sigh of relief. "_Thank you, Lord,_" he said silently. "_Thank you for sparing her from at least some of the horrors the world has to offer._" Stella closed her eyes and allowed her head to drop back into his arm. "I worked there up until the day of the revolution. Those people were my family, every last one of them. Now… now they're…" Javert squeezed her shoulder for a second. "Every last one of them. They told me to leave before the battle started. They didn't want any girls in the fighting; Éponine just barely slipped by them…"

"Who was Éponine?" Javert was genuinely curious.

"Gavroche's sister. The older of the two. She could have been quite something, if she weren't so head over heels for Marius."

"Marius Pontmercy?"

"One and the same. Marius had a heart too big for his own good. Only person he didn't seem to love too much was Éponine. He was quite bright. Never got too rowdy, even taught me how to read a little bit." Stella was starting to choke up. She laid her head back on Javert's shoulder, and then continued, "Marius told me not to stick around the day of the battle. He said the café would get shelled, so I should get as far away as possible. I didn't go far. I was close enough to hear every single bullet…"

Javert questioned what to do. What did Stella need him to do at the moment? He hadn't the faintest idea. "_Should I light a fire? What, and leave her alone at this time?_" No idea seemed rational and helpful. Wrapping his free arm around her, he pulled her head into his chest and stroked her hair. "_What should I say? What can I possibly say to make her feel better about the deaths of people I hated?_" Stella's tears soaked straight through his shirt and skin, burning as they reached his heart. "_All those children I helped kill. They had friends and families who loved them. All this time I thought I was right, and what do I have to show for it? A daughter whom I wouldn't even have had it been my decision._" Gazing out the window, Javert gave the stars an anguished look. "_What was the last thing I did right, anyway? Have I ever done anything right?_"

"I'm so sorry, Stella. I wish I could help you. I wish I could be the father you deserve, but I can't. I can't ever be loving or deserving of your trust. It's not who I am."

"It's not who you were," she shot back. "Haven't you set aside your old self? Who you were cannot be changed. Who you are is whatever you want to be."

Javert was completely taken aback by her response. She was indeed right. Now was the time to silence the demon once and for all. "I thought you only loved me for who I once was."

Her smile was broken and her voice faltered, but the message was clear and exactly what he never expected to hear. "I admired you for what you once were. I love you for who you are now, for who you are to me."

"Who am I to you?" His heart echoed like beating drums.

"You're the father I was always denied." She paused for a moment as her message sunk in for both of them. "What about me? What am I to you?"

Javert could not believe why she had even asked him. It was so obvious, wasn't it? "_You're everything to me! My life, my second chance, my star fallen from heaven…_" No. None of these things could be said quite yet. "You're the family I thought I would never have." It was heartfelt and honest. "Did I ever tell you what I did before going to Toulon?"

Stella shook her head. She did not even know that he had once lived in Toulon. "_Although,_" she thought, "_it does make sense. Didn't he say he once supervised a labor camp…?_" She was genuinely interested in the man he was in a time long ago.

"Sometime during the August of 1780, I was born inside a prison. Not many families were too willing to adopt at the time, so I was allowed to stay with my mother as long as I was deemed dependent. I told you my mother was a whore, but that was not quite the case. She was a whore when she was arrested, sure. However, she spent much of her life as a fortune-teller." Javert's memories of his mother were very vivid, no matter how hard he tried to forget her. No matter how hard he fought, how far he ran, those mysterious chocolate eyes were always watching him. "She told me endless stories about stars. They would guide me, she said, if ever I was lost in the darkness. She named me after a mighty warrior in the stars. 'My son,' she would always say, 'are you my warrior? Will you protect me?' Of course, I thought I would. I could never see myself in a situation where I wouldn't defend my own mother." Stella looked up at him in wonder. He continued with difficulty: "That's when I met the prison guard. Up until I met him, I was unaware that other children had different lives and privileges than me simply because of where they were born. His name was Michael Javert, and he would teach me as any normal child would be taught. He seemed to think I had potential. One day he asked me if I would consider training as an officer like him. 'Would I still be able to see my mother?' I had asked with all of my boyish innocence. He gave me this odd sort of smile that intimidated me a little bit. 'Oui, monsieur. You will be able to see your mother from the right side of the bars.' 'What could you possibly mean by that? My mother is a good woman, and we shouldn't be separated!' I was, of course, greatly offended. He laughed at me outright. 'A good woman. Is that really so, monsieur? Would a good woman tell you who your father is?' I didn't know who my father was. Why did I need to know? I had my mother. I made the mistake of telling this to Monsieur Javert. He smiled again, then led me down a long hallway with lots of cells like my mother's. 'Eugene?' he barked at another guard, who saluted him. 'Is it safe to see 9430?' 'Oui, monsieur. He is asleep, so use caution.' He pushed me up close to the door of the cell. I looked in to see a man who looked quite a bit like me. He looked peaceful and out of place in the cell when asleep. I questioned internally what he would look like when awake. 'Who is this man, what sort of convict is he?' 'The very worst,' Monsieur Javert replied. 'He killed a man with a knife. His name, if you must know, is,'"

Javert stopped. His father's name had always been a point of shame for him, but now it burned in him with a pain so strong he could not put it to words. "'His name, if you must know, is Philippe Valjean. Never associate with a Valjean, boy. They're all criminals in some way. Philippe's got himself a brother, Jean, who married some hussy called Jeanne Mathieu. I know the whole wretched lot of them. They have no honor, and they never will.' Monsieur Javert got down on his knees in front of me and stared me in the eye. 'There's the choice you have to make, boy.' Gesturing to my father, he adopted an edge to his voice that I didn't like much. 'There is nothing on Earth that we share. It is either Valjean or Javert.' I… I chose Javert. Needless to say, I chose wrong." Javert looked down to see Stella's head resting on his chest, seemingly asleep. "_Perhaps for the better,_" he thought. "_Even she shouldn't know everything._"

The thought disappeared as she smiled playfully. "Your mother named you after a mighty warrior in the stars. What is your given name, then?"

It was a question the old man had heard many times before, most often from classmates at his first proper school. He had always told them it was Michael, but the name Michael Javert caused him to still shudder at such a young age. Stella was different, though. It was a simple request; why should he deny it? "Orion," he said as she drifted off to sleep. For the first time in many years, he whispered his true name. "Orion Valjean."

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**So... how about that plot twist, huh? Thanks for sticking around, y'all.**


	8. Shadows

**Here you are, y'all. Brand new, somewhat angsty chapter taking place mostly in Javert (Orion)'s mind. Umm... yay? Actually it's just a flashback to a scene in the movie. Mostly. Yeah. No plot twists, just nightmares. Influences from "Shadow- a Parable" by Edgar Allan Poe.**

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_"Well, look who's here! The good Inspector himself! Pretending once again he's done the right thing for his Patria." The voice was terrifying without being specific – or was it terrifying because it was specific? It was Michael, then his mother, then his cousin, Jean Valjean, then sweet, innocent little Gavroche, then… Stella? No. That was the line._

_"I don't believe you if you take on her voice." Javert said with mock courage as he had often done in the past. Petrified, he searched for any sign of stars in the darkness. None. It was just him and the voice alone together._

_The voice became a perfect imitation of Stella without faltering or adopting other tones as it had before. "Monsieur, I highly doubt that. You'll believe anything I tell you. Hell, I even got you to believe that I loved you." Infuriated, Javert clawed at the black fog that encircled him. The fog had to contain the owner of the voice. "I wouldn't do that if I was you, monsieur. Would you really hurt your darling little child?"_

_"You are not my child! My Stella would never say these things to me. You're a terrible liar."_

_"Perhaps I am, Monsieur Valjean. Perhaps I am. But wouldn't you feel terrible if you were wrong?" Light of an unknown source pierced the fog, allowing Javert to see the silhouette it had previously concealed._

_"Stella? Stella, what's happening? What are you doing to me?"_

"Nothing, Father. What is it?" Javert's eyes opened to see Stella looking at him, afraid and confused.

"So sorry, Stella. It must have been a dream."

Cupping his jaw softly in her hand, Stella stared straight into his soul. "If it was a nightmare, then it was nothing more than a sign that the worst is behind you." Without another word, she kissed him on the cheek and walked away to her room

Javert looked after her as she walked away, confused. For the first time, the gesture seemed deliberate. Planned. She showed no sign of shock or apology. Soon his thoughts faded away and, lulled by the rumble of distant thunder, he drifted off to sleep once again.

_The sea of French blood washed up over the Inspector's shoes, beading and rolling off as if it were nothing more than water. Hell, it had been spilled with no more concern than water! Bodies of soldiers were probably greater in number than the cobblestones which were supposed to line the street. Corpses, cobblestones, what did it matter now? Their faces. Oh, sweet mercy, their faces. Agony, fear, shock, remorse, nostalgia, the Inspector never had time for any of these before. What did it matter now? Damn, this sea of blood was endless. He could have drowned in it. What would it matter if he did? He was dead already anyways._

_As the blood rolls off his shoes, he begins to wonder where the revolutionaries are. They died as well, did they not? Where are they? Silently, the man climbs the great shrine to all of his hatred. No bodies behind the barricade either. Also, no sign of his (possibly) living nemesis. The sea of blood has come to an end at least. The pavement is surprisingly clean back here. He continues walking to clear his head. The Inspector is a hard man; not much fazes him, but nothing could have prepared him for what he saw._

_There is, in fact, a spot of blood on the ground, and it is his own. Why is the ground perfectly clean, save this one blemish? Did the revolutionaries survive? As if on cue, Inspector Javert looked up and saw a line of bodies perfectly in a row. They looked as though they could have been sleeping, but their pallor betrayed them: they were long since gone from Earth. Were they… are they in hell? Well, they couldn't be in heaven if their last acts were all sins, could they? The Inspector's mind would not stop turning, no matter how often he told himself he did not care. At the end of the row lay two bodies too tiny to be lying here. One was a woman. The other – Oh God, no. Gavroche. Crimson blossomed forth where he had been shot. Surely the line must be drawn somewhere! No. The law is the law. What would Michael say? But… what would Father say? To hell with Michael. Javert honestly did not know how to perform last rites, nor was he really sure if he should, but he knew what he could do. The forgotten sermon of a venerable priest from ages past came to his mind once again: "Step back and allow God to be God." Javert removed his medal cautiously. Drones do not deserve medals. Placing the medal on the boy's chest, he closed his eyes and said silently, "Please Anthony, please, ask God to forgive this boy if He can. Please, Anthony, please…" His prayer is replaced by a mocking voice telling him to search for Valjean. What else could he do?_

_No one, nothing dared to ever try to trick the Inspector. Not even his own senses. However, as he flung open the door to an empty house that could have been hiding Valjean, Javert could swear he heard a man's laughter from behind him. Several men in fact. "Who's there? I am the law, and the law is not mocked!" It was a statement Michael had said many times in his numerous fits of blind rage._

_A girl's voice, no older than seventeen. "Perhaps so, Monsieur. But I doubt it." Her laughter was familiar in a terrible way, and even more derisive than the men before her. Javert decided at once to turn around and confront the owners of these voices, but the sight before him was the most awful thing yet: nothing. All the bodies except Gavroche had vanished. The Inspector braced himself against the wall to await whatever may come._

_The boy sat up strangely, as though a doll manipulated by a small child. When he turned his head to search for a familiar face, Javert saw that the light in his eyes, thought to be eternal, had been snuffed out. He opened his mouth to scream, but all that came out was the child's voice. "Good evening, dear Inspector, lovely evening my dear!"_

Stella had been lying awake and staring out her window. The storm had passed, allowing her to see the stars. "_Father was right. They are quite beautiful. Which one is Orion though?_" She had just thought of asking him when she heard something like him crying. "Monsieur?" She asked as she flew out of her room.

Javert woke up in a panic. Of course it was only a dream, but that did not unsettle him any less. He stood up, relieved beyond belief that the Weakness had not set in. Kneeling by the open window, he stared out at the stars for a second then closed his eyes tightly and buried his thumbs in his eyes.

The words were foreign and hard to pronounce, so he fumbled around with the first few words to try to remember them. What did they mean, anyway? Nobody had ever told him, so he simply harkened back to the elderly priest's words "Say this when you face adversaries."

"Domine, quid multiplicati sunt qui tribulant me? Multi insurgunt adversum me! Multi dicunt animae meae non est salus ipsi in Deo eius. Tu autem, Domine, susceptor meus; es gloria mea et exaltans caput meum. Voce mea ad Dominum clamavi et exaudivit me de monte sancto suo! Ego dormivi et soporatus sum, exsurrexi quia Dominus suscipiet me. Non timebo milia populi circumdantis me exsurge, Domine, salvum me fac Deus meus! Quoniam tu percussisti omnes adversanti, mihi sine dentes peccatorum contrivisti. Domino est salus; super populum tuum benedicto tua!"

Stella had been hiding behind a corner, lest she disturb him. The grammar was muddy, and his pronunciation was a little off, but was he… speaking Italian? Even if he wasn't, she could understand him perfectly. "Bona nox, mi pater," she whispered before returning to her room.

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**Author's note: Javert's prayer for Gavroche might seem a little weird, but I realized: Javert would probably not pray directly to God. His prayer in this chapter is directed toward St. Anthony, patron saint of children's diseases and lost causes. I think. If I'm wrong, let me know and I'll change it. See y'all soon!**


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